L'Amant Du Roi
by Sunflowers In Moscow
Summary: Finally!FrUK / / France reminisces about times long past. His thoughts eventually drift back to a certain Englishman, who comes calling with the sobering realisation he knew something before France, and has to do something about it. Will something long suppressed be finally allowed to bloom, or will they go back to their faux-antagonistic ways?


**_I don't own__ Hetalia_**

* * *

He wound up the gramophone slowly, ensuring not to damage the narrow gold handle. The machine had many years to its name, and he didn't particularly wish for them all to amount to nought. The record made a dry humming noise as he laid the needle on the starting groove, but within a few seconds the horn began to carry the familiar enchanting sounds of the orchestra around the small room.

He sighed in satisfaction, before walking calmly over to the sofa; an old antique he had somehow managed to save from certain death centuries ago. The carved legs had been repainted over the ages, of course, but overall, it looked remarkably like it had during the era it originated from. He settled into the soft cream velvet gracefully - it wasn't particularly padded, but comfortable enough, so he tended to ignore it - and stretched out his lithe body until his socked feet hung over the other armrest, and his head was rested gently on a cushion that covered the nearest one.

The symphony - number 85 if he recalled correctly, his and Marie's favourite - continued to drift lazily throughout the room, allowing him to sink into its depths; to immerse himself in the memories it brought back with each note. Into a time of propriety and etiquette, a time he rarely allowed himself to remember. True, it wasn't as if the mere thought of it terrorised him, but it was the nostalgia that swamped him every time that usually prevented him from sitting down to simply think about it. Of course, all memories had bitterness associated with them, especially the memories of nations - and he was no different. It was as turbulent in his mind as it had been back then. Heads had rolled like stones.

He rolled his eyes at the morbid thought, and shook his head before closing his eyes. It had taken quite a while for him to get to the point where he could speak about it freely, never mind joke about it. Many of his fellows had wondered as to his sanity - when their revolutions had come (and everybody's did, violently or not) they hadn't seen his side of it. They felt saddened, even angered both by what had happened and his callousness regarding the subject.

But they didn't see he had gone through that, the feeling of being so torn between two halves of yourself that you felt like horse-pulled ropes had been tied to your limbs and pointed in different directions before being told to run. He had suffered it, just as they had, only he had been granted both a boon and a curse. A revolution is the overthrow of the ruling body in order to replace it with a new system. A revolution had opposing sides.

The difference with his situation, however, was the fact that one side grew smaller and smaller with each day that past. Life after life, head after head had been sliced off with that damned contraption, until the streets were paved with crimson cobbles, until it had gotten to the point it no longer felt like a change. He had grown tired. In other lands, the 'losing' side was either banished or condemned to life much the same as the new government. True, no revolutions were bloodless, but his had been... vicious to the extreme. There had been no such thing as clemency, nor mercy. If you opposed the new order, you were executed. Simple, but ever so complicated.

He had felt devastated, however, once it was all over and things had settled down. The endless deaths and bloodshed had stopped, and he had no idea how to deal with no longer having to block out the pain of every lost life. It had left a gaping hole in his mind, one that he hadn't the faintest clue how to fill. That had changed him, changed him for a very long time. But no one noticed as by the time anyone bothered to stop by, he had broken down, and built himself back up on new foundations. Well, he says no one... That was a lie.

Arthur had, of course. The nosy Englishman couldn't keep his oversized nose (well, figuratively. His nose was actually rather cute and button-like. And fun to push) out of anything that wasn't his business. The second most of the fighting had been over, his door had been beaten up rather soundly, a snobbish voice yelling that only _he _was allowed to kill him, so he had better not be dead. Arthur couldn't deal with a _different _French nation.

He smiled indulgently, his closed eyes crinkling. It was only towards the end of the First World War he had found out the man had actually been worried about him. It was only towards the beginning of the seventies that Arthur had admitted it. The stupid man was so emotionally stunted that if he hadn't been used to it, it might have repelled him. But it could be considered a point of endearment by now, and he never failed to make Arthur aware of exactly how adorable he thought it was.

He also took the grumbles of 'bloody frog' to be a term of fondness, because Arthur knew that none of those so-called insults really even caused him to bat an eyelid now. Much like the names he threw back, there was no genuine sting behind them, or even a small pitch of negativity. They had lost all meaning, simply becoming a way to refer to one another without seeming too friendly. Because God forbid Arthur ever seem like he was normal, with the ability to feel such warmth!

He rolled his eyes once more and gave a small snort. Inhaling again, he was suddenly assaulted with the scent of something he had almost forgotten. He pushed himself up gently, wincing at the loud series of cracks his back gave. The worst of being old and not looking it, he mused. Your outsides were still as gorgeous as ever, and your insides resembled a corpse. He finally sat up with an inaudible grunt, and couldn't suppress a yawn. Another symptom of age; the inability to pull the regular all-nights he used to as a teenager. Centuries ago.

How depressing. Choosing to dismiss all thoughts of his daunting number, he reached over to the wine bottle he had uncorked in preparation, and the empty crystal wine glass placed carefully on the fragile coffee table to the side of the sofa. The sound of the flowing liquid seemed to harmonise with the rapidly approaching climax of the music, he noted with slight dismay but mostly wryness. Typical for him to choose a time to reminisce, and spend most of it thinking of the short, grumpy blond with the obnoxious eyebrows and the fashion sense of a rock.

He put the bottle back down when his glass was full, and just as the final bows of the violins echoed throughout his sitting room, he raised his glass as a mock toast to an era long since past and to another wasted evening.

The silence that followed, well, he wouldn't describe it as peaceful. It just seemed to make him more alert and the minute sleepiness he had been partially trying to wave off had vanished. He was acutely aware of his surroundings, and that was why when the door which was behind him opened as quietly as possible, he noticed immediately.

And had to suppress an amused smile, for fear of the cause seeing and throwing a tantrum. He took a sip of the fruity wine to quell such chuckle-inducing thoughts. If a smile caused a tantrum, and laugh would probably start a war. Arthur was melodramatic like that.

"_Oui, Angleterre_? To what do I own ze pleasure of your company?"

He could feel the scowl stabbing the back of his neck as an oddly hoarse voice replied.

"Shut it, you prancy git. I'm here on business."

France stomped on the small shoot of disappointment - ridiculous - and took another, long gulp. Never let it be said the great nation of France doesn't need liquid courage every now and then. Most definitely when dealing with stubborn Brits who wouldn't see a positive emotion if it was staring them in the face. Not that France was really intending to look at England. Because he knew if he did, his most recent realisation - of something he should have been aware of decades, no, _eons _ago (really, he was the _le pays de l'amour_, it was unacceptable that it took him this long to understand something so obvious) - would cause him to lose his composure.

And composure was a necessary personality trait to maintain around England, as the man had a way of deliberately baiting someone until they cracked and went axe-crazy. It had been hundreds of years since the blond had gotten a rise out of France, and he was determined to keep it that way. No silly thing like his personal feelings could let him win, because if he did, France would never hear the end of it.

Long, weary spiels of gloating would greet him at every turn, and to be completely honest, France was growing sick of the wordplay, all of it.

Not that he would ever, ever tell, because refusal to play the game would result in mockery, or even worse; total exclusion from the other man's life. And France was not sure that was something he could cope with. Yes, with age came responsibility and experience, but one of the disadvantages was the need for routine. And no interaction with the only country he was so close to, well, it wouldn't be very easy.

Arthur was so many things to him. He was so many things that he would never know.

France _relied _on England. He wasn't ashamed to admit it any more.

But he wasn't foolish enough or naïve enough to presume the other man felt the same way.

So like a smart nation, like a smart _person_, he kept his mouth shut.

He turned around slowly, leisurely, as if nothing in the word could hurry him. A grin was ruthlessly forced down as he heard foreign teeth grating. He stopped in his movement and settled back into the cushions, crossing his legs casually. When he finally looked up to his unexpected visitor, he had to forcibly stop his eyes from widening.

England looked terrible. There was grey, chalky skin hanging from under each eye, and his ordinarily peach coloured skin (which would flush a deep cerise whenever France said something a bit too near the bone for his 'delicate English sensibilities', also known as prudishness) was an unnatural ivory tinge. His blond hair hung limply down the sides of his thinner face, longer than he usually kept it. There was something missing from the man's posture; perhaps the famed arrogance, or the ever-present standoffishness. Whatever it was, France didn't like its absence. And he didn't like being so abruptly worried about the man either. That was new.

What shocked the Frenchman most, however, was the utter desolate expression that sat forlornly on his companion's face. It was so out of place, so unusual to see, that he really wasn't sure what to make of it - apart from to assume something was truly bothering him.

And France wasn't an idiot. He could safely deduct it had something to do with him. No matter how many times he had claimed England didn't own a mirror, he knew that he must have known what he looked like. And France also knew that England would never show himself to be so weak unless he was facing the cause of such a condition. It wouldn't surprise him if the previous statement was an excuse to justify his presence until he came up with his argument.

Deciding to bite the bullet, as it were, he spoke first.

"Zen do business."

The words seemed to leave an after-taste in the air, and France felt a mild flickering of regret when he saw England's face twist. But he didn't take them back, and England didn't bestow upon him an answer either.

They remained in those positions for what seems like ages. England standing awkwardly, his hands fidgeting with random items in his pockets. France sitting in false relaxation.

Each felt the tension rise as they stared at each other, both with the strangest excitement that only anticipation brought.

France felt very overwhelmed. This was not what he had been expecting, not at all. He didn't expect to be interrupted during his period designated solely to recollection. And he didn't expect England's presence so soon - if he was honest, he would have liked it better if he had a few months to ponder exactly what this entire shambles between them was.

It sure as hell wasn't hatred.

He kept gazing into those shining green eyes, filled with something that in hindsight, he would know to be hope.

This was becoming extremely discomforting.

"You look horrific, _Angleterre_." There.

The familiar, the well known banter that was ground he had mapped totally. Ground he knew he would support him, ground that could be depended to smash his opponent upon, ground that he knew would be unforgiving as he landed on his back.

In retrospect, France would know that this was the calm before the storm, the point where he was at his most cowardly. A moment where he pined for safety like an infant, where he didn't want anything to change. France prided himself with his fine matchmaking abilities, but was about to discover he was as useless as an Englishman when it came to the affairs of his own heart.

France's attention snapped back to England when the man gave an exhausted snort.

His hands were shaking.

"You just can't shut your trap, can you frog?"

He was just cold.

"You can't just try to face something head on for once?"

It had nothing to do with him.

"You had to have known this would happen."

_That _man. Who was digging up things France _needed _to stay buried. Things he hadn't wanted to face.

"I didn't notice, but I suppose you did."

The frighteningly _knowing _look in his _émeraude _eyes.

"And... I didn't think how bloody consuming it would be when I realised I didn't care."

The terrifying _knowing _tone in his rough but ensnaring voice. That captivating voice, with the delicious accent that made France's skin tingle with unknown delight.

"That it was _you_."

A delight he had never experienced before, but was becoming addicted to within seconds.

"Of all people."

The steady _knowing _gait as he began to stride closer and closer, the proximity a conscious thing, as if a sentient thread was connecting them, pulling them together like a magnetic field.

"I wondered how you would react. I actually _cared_. Whether you would accept it or reject it."

France uncrossed his legs and pulled them as close to the sofa as he could, shifting to sit directly in the middle. England stopped when France's knees touched his legs. France swallowed nervously.

"And then I just knew. I had figured it all out, and it made me so... smug, I suppose you could say. That I had beaten you."

England bent down his face not inches away from France's own. The Frenchman's arms were now at his side, his hands digging into the expensive fabric of the seat cover. He was barricaded in.

"I knew that you felt the same as me, and..."

France couldn't stop a gasp as supple thighs came to trap him to the seat, the other man's weight settling onto his lap. Two arms leant on his shoulders, and he would deny later on that he leant back. His entire thought processes then went foggy as warm breath that was not his own caressed his lips.

The last words came in a delectable whisper, that taunted France painfully, and caused a sudden explosion of sheer _want_ to erupt from his very core.

"... That I had figured it out before you."

The moment he finished France suddenly felt something snap like a weak violin string inside of him. He ignored any of his misgivings, and just gave in to his base desires. He dived forward and captured those lips, groaning when the texture of them against his own seemed to placate a long deprived part of him and awaken another, more primal one - one that now it had a voice, would never go unheard again. He could feel a smirk on England's lips (one he would quickly divest the blond of, along with several choice articles of clothing if the night remained on this road) as he kissed back fiercely and the blond's long fingers as they weaved themselves into his wavy hair, pulling the strands tightly. He let out another moan, and ran his hands up the bottle green uniform-clothed legs until they rested on a narrow but lightly muscled waist, clinging with the strength of a desperate man.

This felt like something that had been brewing for an exceedingly long time, that had spilled over the surface and was quickly reacting with and altering everything in its path.

It was something he hadn't known he longed for, but as they consumed each other's very (familiar) being with a newly-awakened and alien passion the strength of a raging forest-fire, he never imagined having ever wanted anything else.

* * *

**Like, wow guys. Written in 3 hours. Whose the boss?**

**My first tribute to my penultimate pairing: FrUK. Also, a way to apologise to myself and any others of the horrendous USUK video I made. I'm not bashing USUK, but I'm disappointed in myself as I'm very much supporter of their BRO-mance. Not RO-mance.**

**I needed to write/make some proper loving to get over it. So, there we are!**

**Also, I know nothing about music, so if I got any of the terms wrong, please just tell me; don't hurt me!**

**The symphony France is listening to is Franz Joseph Haydn's Symphony No.85, also known as _La Reine_ "The Queen". A noted favourite of Marie Antoinette.**

**If no one knows what series of events France is thinking about, I will shoot myself for losing all faith in humanity.**

**Hope you enjoyed, and please review! Please!**


End file.
